


Tread Lightly Where the Monsters Lie

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: 5 Things, Double Drabble, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-26 14:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19769731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: Five mistakes John has never regretted.





	1. Marcus

"If you could see yourself right now," Marcus says. "Go ahead and bleed all over my couch, I never liked it much anyway." The impatience is feigned, the concern hardly hidden. There are lines carved into his face like clumsy granite sculpture; John has rarely felt as safe as he does in Marcus' home.

"I've seen a doctor," he says, taking the glass Marcus offers him. Setting it aside untouched. "I'm fine. Just came to thank you for the assist." He hides several coins behind the glass, not to be found until he's gone. Marcus gets touchy. "I appreciate it."

"So you always say."

"I mean it."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Marcus says, exasperated. "You need somewhere to stay for the night, or is Winston still spoiling you?"

"No place like home," John says. Marcus helps him up, leading him to the master bedroom.

Marcus is a gentleman in all things, reliably tame in his tastes. Vanilla, even. Likes to kiss a man senseless before stripping him, to linger on his face and look in his eyes and fuck him slow and careful like a breakable, valuable thing. John's grown to appreciate that.

The world moves fast. Marcus never does.


	2. Kirill

The safehouse comes without heating; the chill air hurts to inhale, seeps through John's blood like an illness. The job is done. Moscow's bleak Continental is miles away. They're forgetting how to shiver, and John breaks first.

"Viggo doesn't need to know all the details."

Kirill is as cold as the air, as the ice on the windowpanes. They're not friends. But he nods, once, wordless, and only then do they touch.

They fuck like the dogs they are, biting uncompromising, snarling at each other's necks, neither submitting. On his side, John hooks a leg over Kirill's hip. Bucks up into the wiry strength of the other man's hand and thinks about the kick of a rifle not two hours past. There is blood under the nails he drags down Kirill's ribs. He leaves behind grazes, ugly and red, gone by morning if they live long enough to check.

Kirill has teeth at the side of his neck, snaring the skin between them. It's a reproach. John refuses the inked-in stars that Viggo offers after every success; signs of command. Collars for hellhounds. He mouths at Kirill's marks, at the heat he radiates, exhaling steam as he groans.

They survive.


	3. Cassian

Cassian is learning Italian. It's not going well.

" _Bona seera, bello_ ," he says, and snickers at John's pointed wince. "Yeah, didn't think so. Like I said, I'm not a linguist. Not even close. If Miss Gianna D'Antonio needs protecting, I can do that for her, no problem. My record speaks for itself. So why not play up my strengths?"

"Didn't you say you wanted out from freelance work? It's a long-term contract. And she's a friend."

"But only if I can speak the language," Cassian says. He groans, tossing the phrasebook aside. The sheets fall from his lap; he's half-hard again, grinning a lazy invitation. Flaunting his youth. John will need at least another hour. Age creeps ever closer, like spilled blood spreading on floorboards; he tries not to mind it.

"Finish the chapter," he says, but Cassian has a rare, infectious smile, and they don't see much of each other these days. John rolls to his stomach, grumbling, long-suffering. He leans over, placing kisses on the skin under Cassian's navel, on the dark hairs trailing down to his swelling cock.

"Practice," John orders. He waits for Cassian to fumble the phrasebook open. Only then does he lower his head.


	4. Aurelio

Tequila in hand, John tries not to hover around the mechanics. He trusts Aurelio's people; knows he makes them nervous. But their tools are under the Mustang's hood, and it feels like watching a vivisection.

"You start backseat driving my guys, I'm kicking you out," Aurelio says dryly. "Just let them fix the fucking car, man. Come on. I got a 70s Chevy that needs a test drive before I ship her out; you want to do the honours?"

They take the car out, open road to let the V8 sing, Aurelio dozing in the passenger seat as John puts wear on the new tyres. The trust is palpable, and unaddressed. He stops in a derelict parking lot. Aurelio opens his eyes. Stretches, grinning.

"And I didn't even have to ask," he says, and slings a leg over John's hip, settling into his lap. He grinds against the palm John presses to his jeans, yanking John's belt open with grease-stained hands. John sits back, hands over the reins and hardly twitches as Aurelio gets comfortable. Knees on the leather seat, John hilt-deep inside him. The top of his head brushes the Chevy's roof as he moves.

The car passes muster.


	5. Santino

The underworld seethes with men like Santino; arrogant heirs handed guns at their baptisms, young lions with high-calibre claws, dipping their hands into hellfire. John leaves burns in his wake. Though Santino is never quite like the rest; the evening after they meet (Viggo's introduction a cursory thing, but Santino's pale eyes have a touch of the demonic to them; they scorch) he's in John's Continental-borrowed bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt.

"This is a mistake," John says, knowing he'll be ignored. Meeting Santino's volatile gaze and feeling something within him sit up and take notice. He has demons of his own. He wonders how Santino plans to tame them.

"I don't make mistakes," Santino tells him. "May I call you John?"

"Sure."

" _Bene._ I am not one for excessive formality; there is no point wasting time when we both want the same thing."

"Do we?" Wary, John lets Santino take hold of his hands, watching transfixed as they are lifted to the other man's elegant throat. He squeezes gently; the only warning he'll give. Santino's smile is like a window over the inferno. He leans into John's grip and shivers, lips parted, nails digging into John's wrists.

They burn each other.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to challenge myself with a word limit, and also try my hand at some different voices for this fandom. If you came for your rarepair, I hope I did it justice!


End file.
